


The Savage Sea

by pibroch (littleblackdog)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cis Female Peter Hale, Domestic, Established Relationship, F/M, Family Feels, Female Peter Hale, Future Fic, Girl Peter, Memory Alteration (past), Memory Loss (past), Motherhood, Older Woman/Younger Man, Past Stiles Stilinski/Malia Tate, Past Underage, Peter Hale Feels, Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy, background Derek Hale/Braeden mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 04:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5361215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackdog/pseuds/pibroch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Morning, pretty lady.” He smiles at her when she laces their fingers together, looking pleasantly surprised. It banishes his worry lines for the moment. “You okay?”</p><p>She feels like she’s drowning, and she hopes that pulling Stiles into a soft kiss isn’t the same as pulling him down into the depths with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. tumultuous and new

**Author's Note:**

> I have no fucking idea how or why this happened, or what it even is, but my love for every single permutation of girl Peter is boundless, so. I’ve written f/f Steter, and m/f Steter with girl Stiles, so I suppose m/f Steter with girl Peter makes it a hat trick. Ta-dah. 
> 
> Abortion is alluded to very vaguely. Miscarriage is mentioned, but doesn’t happen. Pregnancy symptoms are discussed. Somewhat Sheriff critical. Talia critical. Peter's name is still Peter, because.
> 
> Title is from Pablo Neruda’s “Births”

She isn’t really sleeping— not with Stiles stumbling around their apartment, lost in the flurry of his morning routine— but she isn’t getting up either. Dozing like this is a recent development. Usually she’d be perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island, sipping coffee while Stiles tugs on his jeans, juggles his books and his travel mug, and tries to get out the door on time to make it to campus before his first class.

She always makes sure he at least shoves a piece of toast in his mouth before he leaves, and usually slips some fruit and a pouch of granola into his bag. On the days she feels particularly benevolent, she throws eggs in a pan and makes him a couple breakfast burritos to inhale on the way to school.

It’s almost sickening in its domesticity, but really, it’s rooted in selfishness. Her boy toy would be no use at all if she let him waste away. It’s in her own best interest.

Lately, however, the allure of staying in bed in the morning has won out over the urge to keep Stiles fed and healthy. It’s a disturbing development.

She hasn’t fallen out of love with him. She still cares, more than she should. More than she likes to examine to any great degree. There’s only so much self-reflection she can stomach, when it comes to her own emotional motivations. Approximately three minutes, every decade or so, seems about right.

Peter’s eyes are closed, her arm curled around Stiles’ pillow, when the mattress dips behind her.

“Hey.” His voice is soft. Hushed. She feels his weight shift, as he leans over and brushes her hair away from her face. “I’m heading out. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

Stiles is worried about this change in their routine, but he hasn’t asked her about it yet. There’s a faint, sour note of panic in his scent that she hasn’t smelled in a long time. He doesn’t quite hesitate before he touches her now, but she’s noticed he sometimes steels himself first, as if shoring up his nerve.

Like he isn’t sure of his welcome, in her space.

It’s unacceptable.

“Wait.” She turns over, biting back a groan when her brain throbs behind her eyes. The pain is a new development too, along with the fatigue, and it’s just as concerning. She’s a werewolf; she doesn’t get headaches. Not unless she’s healing a fractured skull, or something similar, and she doesn’t remember suffering any severe head trauma recently.

“Wait,” she says again, forcing her eyes to flutter open, and grabbing Stiles’ wrist before he can get away. The bedroom is dim, the blinds still pulled shut against the morning sunlight, but she doesn’t need to flash her eyes to see the concern etched into his face.

“Morning, pretty lady.” He smiles at her when she laces their fingers together, looking pleasantly surprised. It banishes his worry lines for the moment. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Stiles isn’t stupid, or unobservant. The lie makes his smile waver, and in turn, makes Peter feel like a dick. She drags his hand up, pressing a kiss against the bony ridge of his knuckles. “I’m just tired, baby.”

That’s technically the truth, but it doesn’t ease any of the tension hanging between them like a shroud. The idea of letting Stiles leave for class without fixing this makes her stomach churn and her hackles rise, but she has no idea what to say.

“Come here,” she tries, because simple might be her best bet at this point. She feels like she’s drowning, and she hopes that pulling Stiles into a soft kiss isn’t the same as pulling him down into the depths with her.

His hand cups her jaw, and he clings, almost begging for more. Turns a chaste peck into a desperate thing. She lets him lick into her mouth, and kisses him back ferociously, curling her fingers into the folds of his hoodie. He smells like his deodorant and her body wash, soured by a thread of fear, and the sheets between them smell like sex and home.

Peter wants to scream. She wants to roll Stiles under her, blanket him in her scent and her body. Mount him, take him inside herself and bask in the sweet, perfect stretch of his pretty cock. Keep him fucked out and pliant, so drunk on bliss that he forgets how weird she’s been acting for over a week.

Make him forget to ask the question, when she has no fucking answers to offer.

They’re both breathing hard when they break apart. Stiles’ lips are plump, shiny wet in the low light, and his eyes are wide and glazed. He’s beautiful, and Peter is utterly lost.

“I love you.” She should say it more often. The actual words. They never taste bitter on her tongue when she says them to him. “Go, before you’re late. Before I drag you back down here and make you late.”

“Might be worth it.” Stiles leans down for another kiss. His thumb strokes along her bare collarbone, teasing the edge of the sheet where it curls down, barely covering her breasts. He has a thing for the freckles that dust across her shoulders and her chest; they’re fair and rosy compared to the dark constellations of his moles, which are a whole other distraction for her.

They both know she’s totally naked under the blankets.

The kisses are shorter this time, and softer. Shared breath and a gentle press of their mouths, rather than the tongues and teeth of a moment ago. Stiles kisses her lips, her cheek, then her lips again, before he finally sits up.

“Love you too, Peter.” There’s something small and shattered lurking behind the warm, whiskey brown of his eyes. Nothing’s fixed, and Peter’s heart is racing. She’s painfully relieved that Stiles can’t hear it.

She doesn’t stop him this time, when he stands up to leave.

He pauses at their bedroom door, drumming long fingers along the frame, before turning back to look at her over his shoulder.

“Text me,” he says. “If you need anything. Seriously. Just… whatever you need.”

Before she can respond, he’s slipping out of the room. A few minutes later, she hears the front door shut behind him.

 

* * *

 

There are people she could call, but she doesn’t. She has several inklings of what might be wrong, and none of them are anything she wants becoming public knowledge among the supernatural population of the Bay Area. Her contacts are discreet, obviously, or they wouldn’t be her contacts. But there are never any infallible guarantees when it comes to sharing confidential matters with other people; three can keep a secret, if two are dead, or so the saying goes.

The very real threat of death isn’t always enough to keep tongues from wagging, and she doesn’t expect there’ll be any going back, once this particular cat is let out of the bag. Whether she’s dying, “evolving” like her nephew had done, or otherwise.

So she doesn’t make any calls, send any emails, or shake any trees. She doesn’t reach out to anyone, except to pass her credit card to the cashier at Walgreens.

It’s not the most likely cause of all this bullshit, not by a longshot, but it’s the easiest one to check. Anybody can piss on a stick.

 

* * *

 

By the time Stiles gets home late that afternoon, Peter has come to terms with some things. She’s made some decisions.

She’s also cleaned up the shards of glass from the kitchen floor, but there isn’t anything to be done about the dent in the wall. She’s calmed down, though, so it’s nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.

She’s always loved a bit of theatre, some dramatic flair. She could really have some fun with this. It’s tempting to leave one of the tests on the kitchen table for him to find, or draw the blinds and wait in the dark.

Instead, when Stiles walks through the front door, she’s sprawled out on their couch in nothing but her underwear and one of Stiles’ t-shirts. She’s more than halfway through the family sized bag of Reese’s Pieces she bought at the drugstore, which is probably at least partly to blame for her mild nausea.

Of course Stiles freezes when he catches sight of her. It’s four in the afternoon on a Thursday, and she’s hardly dressed, unkempt and unstyled, with her hair a wild mess from all the times she dragged her fingers through it. She looks as though she’s hardly moved all day.

“Oh, hey.” He shrugs his backpack off his shoulder, not taking his eyes off her as he lets the bag slump heavily onto the floor. “What’s, uh— How’re you feeling?”

“Productive.” She waves her hand in a sweeping gesture, indicating the whole lazy length of herself. The scruffy lounge clothes, candy, and the novel she has propped open on her chest. The television is off, but there’s music murmuring from their bluetooth speakers, with the volume turned low.

Productive. Stiles might appreciate that, once she lets him in on the joke.

She doesn’t sit up, but she does hold out the bag of Reese’s, gaping open. It’s a lure, and Stiles doesn’t disappoint, shuffling closer and taking a handful.

“I’m pregnant,” she says, after waiting until he’s crunching through candy shells and peanut butter. It isn’t a surprise or a disappointment when he chokes, spraying masticated bits of candy. Now that she knows she isn’t in the process of withering and dying from some bizarre curse, poison, or supernatural disease, her normal compulsion to be an asshole has returned with a vengeance.

Stiles clutches his chest, wheezing. His eyes are like saucers, wide and round, and his cheeks are flushed blotchy red. Peter hums, stretching her bare legs, then crossing one over the other.

“You—” Stiles’ voice cracks, and he coughs, clearing his throat sharply. It sounds painful. Peter isn’t sure if he flops down to sit on the edge of the coffee table on purpose, or if his knees just give out.

Now she sits up, tossing her book aside, and watches Stiles struggle to get his breathing back under control.

"You—" he repeats, no less strangled than before, and she takes some measure of pity on him. Or on herself. She’s in favour of moving this conversation along.

“Me,” she agrees, subtly sniffing the air. There’s astringent panic to match the rabbiting of Stiles’ heart, but the rest is a muddle of too many other emotions and lingering scents from the day spent on campus. “Pregnant.”

“How can you be—” Both of her eyebrows arch up, before he can fumble his way to the end of that question.

“Seriously?” Shock only excuses so much idiocy, honestly. “Well, you see, Stiles, sometimes when an emissary and a werewolf love each other very much, and they fuck profusely—”

“Oh my god!” There’s the fire Peter wants, pissed off and sparking hot as Stiles finally raises his head, meeting her gaze. “We’ve been _fucking profusely_ for like, five years, and this never came up before, not _one time_ , so excuse me for taking a minute to freak out. Jesus Christ, you’re on that magic birth control—”

“And yet,” Peter says. “Here we are. _Mazel tov_.”

To be fair, she’s had most of the day to process this. There are a few unfortunate dishes in the garbage that can attest to her less than serene reaction, after the full meaning of those two little pink lines sank in properly. After she’d taken a second test, and gotten the same result in stark black letters across the digital screen: _pregnant_.

But now… Now she’s had the time to consider things. She already knows what she’s going to do.

No matter how Stiles decides to deal with his part in this— _if_ he even wants a part in it at all— his opinion this isn’t going to change her mind.

“Okay. Pregnant. Okay.” Stiles taps his palms briskly against his thighs, without any recognizable rhythm. Peter resists the impulse to reach out, keeping her own hands to herself for now. “What are you… what’s going to happen now?” She can hear the click of his throat when he swallows. “How do you want to handle this?”

Stiles isn’t giving anything away, apart from his anxiety. She can’t get a read on his feelings, can’t tell if he’s horrified or terrified, or whatever else. His infuriatingly effective poker face is unsettling, making her significantly more upset than she expected. This mask isn't something he shows her often; it's usually reserved for other people. She resents the knot of nerves twisting in her gut, and resents Stiles for his part in winding her up like this.

If he doesn’t want to deal with this, if he wants to back out, she can’t afford to give a shit about that. She can’t.

He’s twenty-one; next month he’ll only be twenty-two. He’s still in college, with no definite future plans yet, but endless potential. He has one of the most exquisitely sharp minds Peter has ever known, and a heady, healthy blend of ruthlessness, loyalty, and vicious cunning.

He’s also a mess of neuroses and broken pieces, but by some strange twist of fate, Stiles’ jagged edges slot so neatly into the splintered, burnt out parts of Peter’s soul. They _fit_.

But that’s doesn’t mean Stiles wants to be a father at twenty-two. She won’t blame him, if he wants to turn tail and run, rather than have a baby with the unstable, vindictive, thirty-nine-year-old werewolf he’s been shacking up with.

“I’m having the baby.” She doesn’t press a hand over her stomach. It’s a ridiculous urge; there’s no bump or bulge. The thing’s probably the size of a pea, or smaller. She can’t even hear a heartbeat yet. “I’m keeping it. That’s how I’m handling this.”

“You’re keeping it.” A snide remark about Stiles’ parroting sticks behind her teeth, unspoken. She feels tired again. Drained.

She isn’t expecting the feather-light touch against her forearm, and she’d been too distracted to notice Stiles reaching out. The fact that she’s comfortable enough to ignore his movements around her, to let him get so close without paying attention, is incredible. He’s the only person alive she trusts this much.

She despises him for that, some days.

She doesn’t jerk away when he touches her, but she does startle. An answering flinch flickers over his face, too much like hurt, before he schools his expression back to careful neutrality.

“Okay,” he says, without withdrawing his hand. It’s cool against her skin, and slightly rough with the familiar calluses she’s mapped countless times with her own fingertips. With her mouth. “So, um. What about me? Is there— I mean, yeah. If you— _shit_.”

“Eloquent.”

“Shut up.” It’s possible he smiles at her, just a tiny twitch at the corner of his lips, or she might be imagining things. Peter isn’t sure. Her stomach is churning. “Cut me some slack here, maybe? Five minutes ago, I was basically convinced you were breaking up with me, and now there’s gonna be a _baby_ , and I just—”

Stiles’ words trail off, and the colour drains from his face.

“Are you?” His grip tightens, ever so slightly. There’s a quaver in his voice, a thread of hopeless pleading, making him sound eerily like a doe-eyed sixteen-year-old boy kneeling on a dark lacrosse field. “Breaking up with me? Is that— Is that what we’re doing here? Because I know, okay, I know I’m young, and god knows I’m a spaz and such a fuck-up, and yeah, my dad tried, but it’s not like I had a lot of top-tier paternal role models growing up. But you gotta know, Peter. You gotta believe I’d die before I let myself screw this up, right? You gotta know I’d do anything, _anything_ for our kid. Your kid. _The_ kid—”

“Our kid.” Shortness of breath is a normal symptom of pregnancy; Peter googled it earlier. That explains why her chest feels like it’s being squeezed in a giant vice. “I’m not breaking up with you, you idiot.”

 _I’m giving you an out_ , she doesn’t say. _I’m pointing out the emergency exits on this train wreck of a situation_.

“Oh, thank god.” Stiles collapses in a heap, all elbows and limbs. He’s suddenly kneeling at her feet, and her hands are caught, trapped in a tangle of his absurdly long fingers. His neck is bent, forehead resting on her knees, like a supplicant. It’s not a totally new position for him, but she has no fucking idea what he’s doing right this minute.

“Jesus, Peter.” The way he nuzzles her naked thighs is oddly chaste, clearly seeking comfort more than sex. “Scared the shit out of me. I mean, I’m still terrified, don’t get me wrong.” He twists a little, peering up at her with his head still pillowed in her lap. “But our kid, though? You and me?”

Oh god.

“Yeah.” She can hear the thickness in her voice, and there’s prickling heat in her eyes that she fiercely ignores. Fucking hormones already; it’s bullshit. “Our kid, Stiles. If that’s what you want.”


	2. your first light

Stiles researches obsessively for three straight days, spouting stats, facts, and recommendations until Peter threatens to drown him in the toilet. She's got him by the scruff, claws prickling dangerously against his delicate skin as she hauls him toward the bathroom, before he finally agrees to dial it down.

After she assures and reassures him that the risk of miscarriage is infinitesimally small— werewolf vitality and immunity to disease trumps most of the usual causes— they don’t wait to share the news.

There’s always the chance of someone catching the way her scent has changed, and Stiles is abysmal at keeping secrets like this. He's too excited. And Scotty’s precious pack may not be living in each other's pockets anymore, scattered beyond Beacon Hills after high school, but they’re still close in other ways. They’re a unit, a  _family_ , like a pack ought to be. It galls Peter slightly less to admit that now, with the benefit of years stretched between the present and the blood-soaked past. Perspective is interesting; forgiveness is a different animal entirely, as is trust, but  _perspective_  is something.

The point is, once one of the little bastards finds out she’s knocked up, this sort of gossip will travel like a particularly nasty STI.

So they consider a trip north the next weekend. It’s about a three hour drive, depending on traffic, to get to Beacon Hills from Berkeley. Then Stiles chickens out at the last minute, citing some crap excuses about assignments and papers, and Peter allows it.

She’s not terribly keen on the idea of breaking this news to the sheriff in person, anyway. She’s already been shot at by Stiles’ father, and even a graze from a wolfsbane bullet stings like hell.

Seeing the man’s jaw drop over a Skype connection offers all the humour, without the impending threat of violence. Peter’s certainly a fan of this.

“A baby?” The sheriff blinks, easing back in his chair with a harsh, wooden creak. Judging by the backdrop framed in the video, he’s sitting at the Stilinskis’ dining table. “A baby. You two.”

“Yeah, Dad.” Stiles’ hand creeps along the couch, finding Peter’s and twining their fingers together. He’s been getting even more touchy-feely than usual, which is a feat considering his usual penchant for shameless PDA, but Peter can’t quite bring herself to complain. “It wasn’t really… I mean, we didn’t plan it like this. But we’re happy. We’re super freakin’ happy. Right, sugar mama?”

The sheriff’s entire face spasms. It’s a minor miracle that the reaction manages to make such a stupid fucking endearment halfway bearable, but Peter relishes the small victories.

She hums a wordless affirmative, keeping her own face downright serene to really play up the  _blissful expectant mother_  look, and reaches up to stroke the hair at Stiles’ temple. She and John Stilinski have come to an impasse over the years, sometime after she started regularly despoiling his only son. A tentative truce, for Stiles’ sake.

Neither of them are above indulging in a few petty jabs like this, occasionally. Peter just happens to be better at cattiness, and she’s currently got some incredible ammunition to work with.

“You’re not—” It seems the terminal inability to follow a sentence through to the end is inherited. Whatever John was going to ask, he rubs a hand over his jaw instead, and starts over. He looks like he's chewing a lemon, with a ground glass chaser. “This is not a question I want to ask, but Peter, are you totally sure, at your age…”

“I’ll be forty.” It’s the first thing she’s said to John directly since the call connected. “When the baby’s born. Not out of the question for a human woman to have a healthy child at that age, but I understand your concerns. For a werewolf, it’s still a perfectly safe time to conceive.”

“Preternatural healing factor,” Stiles adds, switching audibly into lecture mode. He sounds so enthusiastic, it’s a bit endearing. “Means aging’s different. An extended lifespan, compared to humans. Like Wolverine, sort of. Hell, Peter’s probably gonna outlive  _me_.”

“Whether the baby’s a werewolf or a human,” Peter says, focusing her attention on Stiles instead of the laptop screen. “The odds are very good there won’t be any complications. My mother was fifty-two when I was born, and it didn't do me any harm. I turned out fine, didn't I, honey?”

“So fine.” Stiles is grinning, blatantly drinking her in without a hint of self-consciousness. As though he's forgotten his father is there. “So damn fine.”

A choking sound comes through the computer speakers, but Peter doesn’t bother sparing a glance.

 

* * *

 

Peter manages to beg off the meeting with Scott. Mostly by outright refusing to go, and rather than argue about it, Stiles almost immediately agrees that yeah, it’s probably for the best.

But before their dear Alpha McCall gets the news, there’s one other person that Peter needs to tell. She makes reservations at a nice but casual tapas bar, with excellent food and relaxed decor, then sends a text.

Stiles comes too, as a show of support for his partner, and because he wants to be there to tell one of his best friends the news. It's an especially odd situation, considering their convoluted history.

Also, admittedly, he tags along because he has a perpetual hard-on for the  _patatas bravas_  they serve.

“You smell weird.” Malia doesn’t waste time or pull punches, leaning back from their usual greeting with her nose scrunched up. It’s taken some time to get to this point, but she and Peter usually scent-mark when they see each other now. To most humans, it looks like an affectionate hug. If the gesture happens to make something fragile flutter in Peter’s chest every time, a tug behind her ribs that’s somehow familiar and brand new at the same time, she'll be taking that knowledge to her second grave.

Their server hasn’t even appeared to drop off menus yet, but the bluntness is refreshing.  _Malia_  is refreshing, as always. She’s grown into her own person— a strong, clever, capable person —without any input from Peter whatsoever.

It’s strange to think about that now, what could have been. Pregnancy is already wreaking hell on Peter’s sensible schedule for navel-gazing. She’s getting  _sentimental_. It’s disgusting.

“That’ll be the hormones, sweetheart.” Peter all but hip checks Stiles into their booth, and is only somewhat less insistent as she ushers Malia to sit on the other side of the table. Slipping in beside Stiles, Peter folds her hands in front of her and conjures up a smile. “I’m pregnant.”

“Smooth,” Stiles says, already fidgeting with the small pot of decorative succulents. The restaurant keeps plants on the tables, never candles, which is one reason Peter likes it. “ _This_  is you breaking the news gently? What am I saying. Of course it is.”

“Oh, and you’re the expert on tact and sensitivity now, are you?” Sniping back is as natural as breathing. Peter’s privately relieved that Stiles’ current— and hopefully temporary— lapse toward saccharine as he adjusts to their new situation hasn’t resulted in him being any less of a smart-mouthed little shit with her.

He’s taken to staring at her like she hung the moon. He did it before, always glancing quickly away if he thought she might catch him, but now he doesn’t even try to be stealthy about the mawkishness.

Stiles opens his mouth, clearly gearing up to unleash a torrent of snark, judging by the glint in his eye. But he shuts up when Peter grabs his jaw, clamping it closed.

Malia is being awfully quiet, and there’s an unpleasant tang of agitation in the air. She’s shaking her head when Peter looks over at her.

“Bathroom,” Malia says, scrambling out of the booth with an unusual lack of grace. “I’m gonna—” She actually runs towards the back of the restaurant, narrowly avoiding crashing into a server with their arms loaded in entrees.

“Shit.” Prying himself out of Peter’s grip, Stiles rubs one hand over his face, dragging it back through his hair. “Okay, well, that could’ve gone better. I’ll go talk to her. Scoot that sweet ass outta my way, sugar mama.”

Peter stands up, letting Stiles slide out. He might be an unrepentant dick most of the time, but letting Stiles deal with this particular emotional quagmire seems like the wisest option.

 _Maternal instinct_ isn’t something Peter’s given much consideration. She could probably use the practice, but she’s never been Malia’s mom. She’s the girl’s mother, biologically, but she won’t try to fill the void left by Evelyn Tate. She strongly doubts Malia would appreciate it if she made the attempt.

Stiles gives Peter a peck on the lips, then disappears back toward the unisex bathrooms. When their server finally comes by, Peter is sorely tempted to order her usual Old Fashioned, but settles for a ginger ale.

Then it’s simply a matter of  _hurry up and wait_.

 

* * *

 

The rims of Malia’s eyes are red when she and Stiles return, but her face is dry and her smile seems genuine. Possibly a little shaky, but sincere.

“So.” She flops into the booth and immediately snatches up a menu, though she doesn’t open it yet. “Guess I’m gonna be a big sister again.”

 

* * *

 

The rest of the pack hears the news from Stiles or each other, in dribs and drabs. Peter doesn’t really care enough to pay attention to it.

She contacts a few local magic practitioners with medical experience, and finds a midwife familiar with werewolf pregnancy. She takes the vitamins and herbs they recommend, only after double-checking with her own research, and alters her diet. Coffee is completely banned from the apartment after two months of jonesing and barely restrained homicidal impulses— the theory  _out of sight, out of mind_  isn’t actually that effective, but at least she doesn’t have to suffer the smell every goddamn morning. If she’s going to strictly limit her daily caffeine, like Stiles is forever harping about, she’d rather get it through chocolate. He can just suck it up and fucking  _deal with it_.

The halfway mark, twenty weeks, comes and goes without a great deal of fanfare. It’s not exactly a walk in the park, and she spent far too many mornings hunched over in their bathroom, snarling and cursing at Stiles with increasingly colourful threats as her stomach tried to crawl out of her mouth, but the pregnancy hasn’t been especially horrible either.

Lykke, her midwife, is very frank that it’s all downhill from here, until she finally pops. The swollen ankles and increasing need to piss at all hours of the day and night are going to be  _delightful_ , Peter’s certain. Also, the frequent bouts of heartburn continue to be a joy.

Why the hell did she decide to do this? She honestly can’t remember what she was thinking.

She’s just about six months along and in the middle of receiving a very promising, very thorough backrub, when there’s a knock on their apartment door. Stiles’ hands freeze on her bare shoulders, and Peter hears his heartbeat jump.

Generally, they don’t get many visitors, especially uninvited ones. And, generally, guests stay outside the building until they’re buzzed in through the intercom.

“Expecting anyone, sweetheart?” Grabbing her shirt, Peter pulls it over her head, stretching the thin cotton over her growing stomach. She hadn’t had much of a bump until about three weeks ago; now she swears she can feel herself swelling.

“Hey, whoa.” Stiles follows her off their bed in a flail of limbs, clambering to his gain his feet. “Let’s just see who it is. Probably just Mrs. Khan with another goodie basket.”

Peter doesn’t like to encourage their neighbours to nose into their business, but Mrs. Khan is surprisingly discreet and considerate for such a wizened, grandmotherly cliché of a woman. She also regularly provides Peter with a particular herbal tea that she blends herself, which had been the only thing guaranteed to stave off the worst of her nausea in those early months of morning sickness. The  _goodie baskets_  she delivers occasionally are actually very thoughtful.

It’s late enough at night that the chances of finding Mrs. Khan waiting in the corridor are slim to none.

“I can go see who it is,” Stiles starts to say, but Peter’s already stalking out of their bedroom.

Stiles isn’t playing the overprotective partner at the moment, trying to keep Peter cloistered away. That’s definitely a good thing; Peter would hate to have to brutally murder him now, when she’s gotten so used to having him around. He is, however, very aware that her defensive instincts are cranked up, especially here in the privacy of their home.

But Peter isn’t planning to maul anybody for simply daring to knock on their door. Probably.

Not unless they give her a reason, anyway.

Two heartbeats in the hallway. The barest whiff of wolf. Peter’s nose is more sensitive than usual, and the smell piques something in her, familiar.

“Well, well.” She opens the door, but doesn’t step out of the way to let their visitors enter. “Derek. Cora. Isn’t this a surprise.”

“It really is.” Cora doesn’t try to disguise her curious gawking, tipping her head and staring at the swell of Peter’s stomach. “Holy shit, Aunt Peter.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t let his eyes drift any lower than Peter’s chin. The smell of gun oil and spicy perfume lingering around him probably means Braeden isn’t too far away, but there isn’t any obvious sign of her in the immediate area.

“Wow, shit, hello.” Stiles pops up behind Peter’s back, but doesn’t try to get around her or move her out of the way. “It’s a Hale invasion. What’s up guys? Long time, no see.”

“We didn’t call ahead.” Cora shrugs as she states the painfully obvious, and it’s not an apology. Stiles has sporadic communication with Derek and Cora, mostly texting and email, rarely video chats. There hadn’t been a single word about a possible visit, as far as Peter knows. “Weren’t sure when we’d get here, and we didn’t want to give you time to pick up sticks and move if you knew we were coming.”

It’s a joke, but there are some unpleasant truths layered under it. They’ll never be a picture-perfect happy family again, or even just a relatively civil one. Not with so much bad blood spilled between them all.

But they’re here. They came, even if it’s only to find out if the rumours are true.

Peter considers her niece and nephew carefully for a moment, before shifting a half-step to one side.

“You two look like vagrants.” It isn’t that much of an exaggeration. Both Cora and Derek are dusty and travel-worn, with weariness in the tightness around their eyes. Cora has a ratty backpack slung over one shoulder, while Derek doesn’t have any bags. “Get in, before the neighbours call the cops.”

 

* * *

 

Peter is lying in bed, surrounded by a nest of pillows and the warm weight of Stiles wedged up against her back. He mumbles some nonsense against her nape as she gently repositions the arm he has curled around her, but doesn’t actually wake up.

“Mango,” Stiles mutters, as Peter guides his fingers to spread over the curve of her stomach. He’s been referring to the baby as different fruits and vegetables since the beginning, when he’d discovered a chart online comparing fetus size to foods. They passed Mango a couple of weeks ago, evidently into Cantaloupe territory now, but Stiles isn’t known for the accuracy of his sleep rambling.

Peter sighs, running her fingertips over the knobs of Stiles’ knuckles. If she strains her ears, she can hear Cora snoring in their guestroom. Derek didn’t deign to sleep over, but he did thaw enough to offer an awkward, halting  _congratulations_ and a one-armed hug for Stiles, before beating a retreat back to the hotel room they’d booked for their stay.

It doesn’t require any strain at all for Peter to hear the tiny, rapid heartbeat fluttering under her gut. She’s aware of the baby’s pulse, every waking moment. It never quite fades to the edges of her attention like white noise, but it’s become an oddly comforting soundtrack to the rest of her life.

She focuses on it now, listening intently. It’s a healthy pup. Strong.

Peter can’t remember a time when she wasn’t harbouring at least a tiny bit of anger at her older sister— the relationship between her and Talia had always been somewhat contentious. A clash of personalities. A perfect storm of stubbornness, pride, and old hurts.

But she has never hated Talia more fiercely than she does now. No jockeying for leadership, petty insults, strong-arm tactics, or heated arguments ever made her this incandescently furious with her overbearing, high-handed, hateful  _bitch_  of a sister.

Because Talia  _knew_. She’d carried three pups of her own already, Cora still freshly pink and squalling, when she shoved her claws deep into Peter’s spine and  _stole this from her_.

Talia had known what it felt like to listen to a tiny heartbeat. The rush of absolute certainty that she would tear anyone to pieces, burn the whole world to ash and ruin, just to keep that little life safe.

Peter doesn’t realise she’s growling, low and dark, until Stiles wakes up.

“Mm, wassat?” His voice is raspy, and his words slur messily together, but he’s at least somewhat conscious. “Hey, babe? Y’okay?”

“Cantaloupe’s kicking,” she murmurs, willing her tensed muscles to relax as she drags Stiles’ hand around to feel. She’s been able to feel the movement internally for a little less than a month, but for Stiles, it’s still very new. “Your child’s an obnoxious shit already. What a shock.”

Stiles hums, kissing her neck, and trails his palm over her stretched skin. He’s always keen on using coco butter to ease the itch and the tightness, whenever she lets him slather it on her, which happens often. Right now, her belly is soft and smooth from the rub down they’d indulged in after heading to bed for the night.

“Shh, lil’ Cantaloupe.” The fetus can hear now, according to Stiles’ extensive research notes. He’s been treating that fact as an excuse to chatter at her constantly, which should be incredibly irritating.  _Not_  charming. Peter has no idea what her hormones are doing anymore. “Hush, baby. Listen, you let your mom sleep, and there’s ice cream in it for you tomorrow. Promise.”

“Bribery? Really?” It’s coincidence that the kicking eases off, but Peter is still glad she can’t see the shit-eating grin Stiles is pressing against her shoulder. “I refuse to be the strict parent, Stiles. I’ve got a melon tap dancing on my bladder for the next three months, so you don’t get to be the fun one.”

“I guess we’re just gonna have a heedless puppy running around, huh? Little feral kid, doin’ their own thing. I’m cool with that.”

“Of course you are.” The baby’s heartbeat is steady. Soothing. Peter lets her fury ebb away like a tide. It’s unsatisfying to hate the dead; there’s no payoff. Unless she resurrects her sister, just to kill her again. “Ice cream?”

“Hm, yeah. Gonna take you out tomorrow. Ice cream date. Cantaloupe’s invited, too.” Everything is calming down, Peter’s mood and the baby both quieting. The central air is keeping the worst of the August heat at bay without too much annoying noise, and their thin blankets are a cozy, comfortable cocoon.

“Try to sleep,” Stiles says, laying a few more lazy, sloppy kisses along her shoulder and the join of her neck. “Love you.”

Peter waits until his breathing evens out. Until he slips under again, still slowly rubbing her stomach. She waits until the baby is the only soul listening. “I love you, too.”

She’ll say it again in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> ps: I promise I’m making progress on my wips ♥


End file.
